


once you live a good story

by pummelwhack



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pummelwhack/pseuds/pummelwhack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carol and Jessica redefine what it means to be happy, in the context of coffee, philosophy, and each other. Or, the one where Carol and Steve own a used bookstore, Sam runs the coffee shop next door, and Jessica searches for more than what life is currently offering her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	once you live a good story

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this tumblr post](http://sydsleroux.tumblr.com/post/42975602422/bookstore-au-ex-air-force-pilot-carol-danvers), and [this quote](http://goodreads.com/quotes/258936-and-once-you-live-a-good-story-you-get-a) from a Donald Miller book. Soundtrack: [become more adventurous](http://8tracks.com/pummelwhack/become-more-adventurous).
> 
>  **Warnings:** brief flashbacks of war, non graphic discussion of war casualties, minor past character death.

She walks in on a Wednesday.

She walks in, a whirlwind of wild hair and remarkable beauty and Carol's heart stops—actually _stops_ beating, a single echo from the last throb reverberating against her ribs painfully.

Carol has seen men blown to bits—literal bits of limb hurling at the windows of her baby and still managed to keep a cool head. But this? This girl walks in and the air is too thin to inhale; her head is spinning, the way it does half a second before blacking out, and when her heart finally kicks into gear it's thumping so hard and fast she starts to feels _ill_.

The girl looks to Steve, who's tilted back in his chair, ankles crossed above the checkout counter, and says to him, "Can you tell me if you have a particular book?"

Steve straightens up and points helpfully to Carol, still gawking from the stacks. "If we have it," he says, "she'll tell you. She knows every book in this store."

Her eyes find Carol's and the effect is like her entire first week of military training. Everything inside her body aches, pain swelling in the hollow of her chest; her skin flushes—scorches, really; her mouth goes dry, her mind goes numb, and it somehow manages to be the most amazing feeling in the world.

She hasn't felt anything this profound in _years_.

For several long, very painful seconds Carol forgets to breathe, and only remembers when Steve clears his throat. The girl stumbles forward, and whatever just happened—that moment frozen in feeling—shatters, not completely, but enough that Carol also remembers how to form words.

"What are you looking for?"

The girl glances at a crumpled scrap of paper in her fingers. "Nietzsche?" she pronounces, correctly but awkwardly. " _On the Genealogy of Morals_?"

That is perhaps the very last book Carol would expect anyone to actively go looking for.

"Bold choice."

"It's a recommendation."

Carol smiles politely in attempt to mask her interest. "Well, you're in luck. Let me grab it for you."

She proceeds to their very small philosophy collection two rows down and is surprised when the girl gives chase. "You really know every book in this store?"

She sounds impressed, not skeptical.

"I've _read_ every book in this store," Carol says, locating the girl's impending headache and hands it off, glad to be rid of it. "Steve will ring that up for you."

"Thanks."

The girl keeps Carol's gaze a few moments longer before self-consciously tucking some hair behind her ear and disappearing from sight.

Carol stays, waits for the _ding!_ of the bell Steve installed above their door before releasing a breath trapped low in her throat.

What the hell just _happened_?

  
  


Carol stews in it all day, drives herself mad with it, and when she and Steve close up shop for an hour to grab lunch at the little café next door she finally sucks it up and says: "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

Steve, who's spent most of the hour doodling on napkins and quietly indulging some fixation with the shop owner, startles and gives her the kind of wide-eyed look of arrest she'd expect on a cookie-pilfering toddler. "What? Why do you ask?"

Her laughter is fond. "Simmer down," she says. "That question wasn't pointed. I'm curious, is all."

He gets that look in his eyes—the kind of disarming look that pierces facades, no matter how carefully constructed they are. "Does this have anything to do with that Nietzsche girl from the store?"

Carol becomes fascinated with her sandwich, ripping off the little frills of lettuce peeking out from the crust.

Steve grins, dorky and charming and _annoyingly_ perceptive. "She was pretty cute."

"She was, right?" Carol says before she can help herself. Sighing, she adds, "But I'll probably never see her again."

"Don't be so sure." Steve reaches out and covers her relatively small hand with his big, callused one. "You never thought you'd see your baby again, remember? After the demotion—" She winces without really meaning to; it's not her favorite memory, and not his best example. "You never thought we'd make it out of that trench, when we got cut off—remember? You, me, Bucky, Nat, and Sharon. No ammo, no provisions, no tech except for that low-range transmitter and no booster—we were so sure we'd die in that ditch. But we didn't, and you got to be a pilot again."

Carol offers a smile, just to show her appreciation. "That hardly compares."

"You're right," Steve says, returning the smile. "At least then we had guns."

They laugh together and it feels nice. Normal. There was a time when Carol swore she'd never be able to joke about the war. (There was a time when she swore she'd never make it _out_ of the war.) Sitting here in this tiny hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, drinking lattes with her best friend and casually discussing their queer crushes feels like an entirely different lifetime.

It's crazy how that works.

"I do, by the way," Steve says, several moments later.

Carol hums and takes a drink, slipping out of her thoughts. "What's that?"

"Believe in love at first sight."

She smiles at him.

  
  


The Nietzsche girl comes back on a Saturday.

Carol's heart trips, tumbling into her throat. The girl's a _sight_ , that's for sure, in shiny black leggings and pin-up shorts. They flatter her legs—she's got great legs—and the mostly-buttoned grey blouse tucked into them draws subtle attention to her chest, which: also great. Her hair is down, wild and long and beautiful, the kind of hair Carol can only envy. She looks ready for a casual afternoon of leisure and reading in the coffee shop next door.

(That's where Steve is now, and Carol is both terrified and thrilled to be alone with this girl.)

She hovers near the counter, clearly uncertain if the store is open. Bravely, Carol emerges from the stacks and offers a smile, prays it doesn't tremble. "Enjoying Nietzsche?"

The girl smiles in return, looking relieved. "No, actually. He's a lunatic."

Carol laughs, not expecting that, but not entirely surprised, either. "He's an acquired taste," she muses. "Like dark roast."

"The latter's a bit easier to swallow," the girl deadpans.

"That's a truth if I ever heard one," Carol says, trying to compensate for the rapid drumming in her ribcage. Remembering to breathe has never seemed like such a chore. "So did you come to return it?"

"Hm?" The girl glances up from—wait, was she just staring at Carol's _mouth_?

"The book."

"Oh." She tucks some hair behind her ear and gives a sort of sheepish smile. "No, I was hoping—well, I wondered—I _thought_ you might—" She's blushing, god almighty that is a blush and it's the most delightful sight Carol's ever witnessed. Her head spins and she wonders if this is what swooning feels like. (If it is, she _hates_ it.) "Recommend me something?" the girls manages at last.

"Oh." Carol swallows, wills her brain to form thoughts that aren't _pretty girl want kiss pretty girl_. "Yeah, totally." She waves the girl into the stacks, grateful for a reprieve. "You have a particular field in mind? Ethics? Epistemology?"

"Not really," the girl says. "Maybe something a bit more... concrete, than metaphysics."

"Gotcha."

After a few moments of careful weaving, Carol stops to scan a shelf. The girl is beside her, watching Carol instead of feigning interest in the books like most people might do, and it's both charming and unsettling. Then, inexplicably, she says, "I'm Jessica, by the way."

Carol offers her hand on instinct, regrets it two seconds too late, but Jessica's happy to comply and—"Wow, firm grip."

Jessica's mouth quirks, bemused and adorable.

"I'm Carol." Their hands linger, relaxing into a softer grip that makes Carol's skin itch where they touch. Her heart shudders, warmth blooming in her chest, and they remember to let go at the exact same moment. This time, when Carol turns back to the shelf, Jessica follows suit.

"Here—" Carol tugs a paperback from the stacks. "John Stuart Mill. Personal favorite." It's a collection of his key theories along with some of his more prominent essays, including the feminist one and—oh crap, that's so gay of her, recommending feminist literature to a woman she's hopelessly enamored with; she didn't mean to be so _obvious_ about it. "He's a political philosopher, so you won't find much ontological theory, if that's what you're after, but there's an essay in here that discusses gender construction and the subjection of women; it advocates for equality, especially in education, and—well, obviously times have changed but it's still a worthwhile read, empowering and—not that you look like you need empowerment, I just—I really appreciate his theories, and growing up the way that I did—I mean, I didn't have a lot of exposure to—not that I consider Mill a feminist figure, or anything, or that he was formative to my—not that he's not _good enough_ to be; he's just more of a casual interest, but he's great—you know, his ideas—inspiring, and—" Carol shrugs helplessly, mortified by her own babbling. "He's one of my favorites."

Jessica's looking at her the way Carol imagines a person might look at a three-legged Yorkie: an odd mixture of affection and pity, and Carol can't decide how she feels about that.

"I'm sure I'll love it," Jessica says, and the smile she offers is dazzling, the kind that reaches her eyes and makes Carol's belly flutter. "I trust your taste in philosophers. Seems like you feel very strongly about this one and, well—" She makes a sweeping motion with her arm, indicating the books. "You _have_ read every book in this store. I assume you know what you're talking about."

"If you hate it," Carol says, somewhat hopefully, "come back, and I'll take thirty-percent off your next purchase. And you have permission to yell at me."

Jessica says, "What if I don't hate it?" in this warm, wonderful shade of a whisper, like she's had the breath knocked out of her, or she's afraid of being heard. Her eyes are bright when they focus on Carol's and—and her mouth curls into a smirk, the loveliest of smirks, with none of the malice but all of the frustrating, _aggravating_ , self-assured swagger... Her lips are red—so red, the reddest...

To hell with it.

Carol tips forward (it's not so far) and kisses her, on the mouth, on those smirking red lips; the hand not holding that damned book finds rest on Jessica's hip, seeking balance and something more—more contact, more Jessica—and then it's over, too soon and not soon enough, and Jessica is licking her lips, looking dazed or maybe aroused, as Carol presses the book into her hands.

"Come back anyway."

  
  


"Your lipstick is smeared," Steve notes, helpfully, when he returns from the coffee shop some time later.

She wipes it off with the back of her hand and thanks him, doesn't mention that she wasn't wearing lipstick today.

  
  


Jessica comes back the very next day, two hours after the store opens, and Carol entertains the thought of Jessica sitting in the coffee shop, waiting for an appropriate time to enter, not wanting to seem eager and driving herself mad with it.

Carol's on the floor, currently, sorting a box of yellowed paperbacks some kindly old woman donated yesterday. "You're a fast reader," she quips, climbing to her feet.

"Not really," Jessica says and barrels forward, crashing into Carol with lips and hands and _breasts_ and Carol back-steps just in time to stop them from tumbling over.

Jessica kisses her hard like she's _hungered_ for this, like she went home yesterday and ached for it and stayed awake with thoughts of it, and the notion of occupying that much of Jessica's headspace is enough to make Carol groan softly, keening into Jessica's touch. Fingers burrow into folds of clothing and strands of hair; Jessica deepens the kiss by tilting her head, ever so slightly, finding traction—her lips lock with Carol's in the most delightful of situations, and— _fuck_.

Kissing Jessica is _perfect_.

It's only when the need for air overrides every pleasure sensor in Carol's body that she pulls back, and tips her forehead against Jessica's shoulder to catch her breath. Jessica pants equally hard near Carol's ear, her hand sliding up to cradle the back of Carol's head, keeping her there—keeping her close.

It's not helping Carol's heart slow down.

After a few moments her hand begins to move, stroking Carol's hair and it feels _amazing_. "I can't stop thinking about you," Jessica confesses, aching and honest.

Any chances Carol had at restoring her heart to a normal rhythm are pretty much shot.

"It's only been a day."

"I _know_ ," Jessica says, like she can't believe it either, like it's been very inconvenient for her and it's suddenly so ridiculous and perfect that Carol starts laughing.

Steve hears it, emerging from the stacks at the opposite end of the store. "What's so— _oh_." They don't separate quickly enough, and Carol feels silly immediately after because this is Steve— _her_ Steve—and there's nothing to hide, not from him. He offers Jessica his friendliest Steve Rogers patented smile. "You must be the reason Carol's in such a good mood this morning."

Carol rolls her eyes.

"I certainly hope so," Jessica drawls, flashing Carol a crooked grin—the kind that makes Carol want to kiss her again. Addressing Steve, she says, "I'm Jessica."

"Steve Rogers." They shake hands and it's so odd, like he didn't just find them wrapped around each other in the middle of the store, knowing full well what they were up to. Carol hides a smile behind her hand.

"So listen," Steve continues, shoving his fists into the pockets of his beat-up jean jacket (the one Carol keeps begging him to get rid of). "Things are pretty slow this morning; why don't you ladies head next door? I can handle the store for an hour or two." He smiles again, lovely and warm and unbearably charming. "Bring me back a cappuccino."

This? This is why Steve Rogers is Carol's best friend.

  
  


They drink shots of espresso and learn about each other.

Jessica Drew lost her parents at a young age and remembers very little about them (but the shadows in her eyes suggest otherwise). Her godmother's a bit of a sociopath but raised her well, even gave her the job she currently holds. She hates it with every fiber of her being, but Jessica has no idea what she'd rather do or what her purpose is—if she has any at all.

Hence the quest for enlightenment.

"I feel trapped," she's saying, crossing one knee over the other; her jeans are black and skinny, clinging to leg muscle like a second skin. "It's not like I can quit. I've hardly any skills, and Ophelia... I wouldn't want to offend her. And the job market in this economy? Forget about it. I'm lucky to be employed, I just—" She looks directly at Carol, her eyes shining with something that makes Carol's heart shudder. "I wish I was happier."

Carol wants to have all the answers. She wants to say something that'll help Jessica change her situation. More than anything, Carol wants to kiss her and promise things she has no business promising, so she settles for reaching across the table between them and placing her hand over Jessica's.

"When I was seventeen," she begins, "my father told me he could only afford to send my brother to college. When I asked him why not me, he said I didn't need college to find a good husband. If I wanted a degree, I had to save for it myself. Prove that I was worth the investment."

This isn't a story she likes to tell; she knows it makes her out to be a strong, self-sufficient woman, but that year between graduation and enlistment ranked among the worst of her life. She felt betrayed enough to disown her family, and although they reconciled before her first deployment, she was cold, distant—never quite gave up her grudge. She learned about her brother's death from an answering machine and after that, the distance grew.

When Jessica smiles at her, it's not with the usual glow of admiration Carol's come to expect, but with a gentle kind of sadness, like she knows there are things Carol won't tell her. "You put yourself through school?"

"No," Carol says. "I enlisted, immediately after high school. Put my soul into training, kept my eyes on the jets." Her own smile is genuine; she remembers still, with perfect clarity, falling head over heels for an aircraft. Chest swollen with feeling, lungs emptied of air, she just _knew_. "I wanted to fly."

Jessica's smile falters. "Wanted," she echoes. "Not any longer?"

"Some things—" Carol stops, deliberates her words; a sighing breath fills her pause. "There are things I couldn't live with. Things I regret," she confesses, honest and vulnerable—more vulnerable than she knows how to be. "Flying lost its magic."

Jessica captures Carol's hand in both of hers, rubbing her thumb along the inside of Carol's wrist, and it says so much more than words ever could.

"I know what it's like to feel trapped," Carol says. "Sometimes you have to wait for your moment. But sometimes you have to _make_ your moment. See, nobody was going to ease my guilt, or make my job any easier for me. Nobody was going to put me through college." She looks at their hands, remembers babbling nonsense about an essay she read when she was nineteen, remembers an ache so strong—curiosity that _craved_ , impossible to ignore—and remembers thinking: _to hell with it_. "There are times when you can only take a risk and hope it leads to something true. And if it doesn't? You just take another risk. I left the Air Force and traveled a bit, read _a lot_ , and by the time Steve got out I had more books than I knew what to do with. He said, _you should open a bookstore_ , just to tease me, and I took another risk."

"And you're happy?"

Her face is wide open, earnest with emotion and it breaks Carol's heart that Jessica needs to ask it—needs to hear it—whether for herself, for Carol, or just for the sake of knowing it's possible.

"I am," Carol says, and truly means it. "Especially today."

Jessica smiles—a brilliant, beautiful smile, and it feels like the beginning of a good story.

  
  


They slip into something so honest and easy, Carol's half afraid to admit what it might really be.

This isn't her first relationship by any stretch of the imagination. There were boys in high school, and a girl with blue streaks in her hair, and during her training there were few flirtations, most harmless. After the war, when she was traveling and reading and remembering how to live, there were many, fleeting and trivial—the kind of people Carol only remembers in names of drink, times of day, and talks of literature.

Jessica is different. When they're together, Carol feels content and warm and settled into her life. She can see this thing they have enduring, blooming—she can see a story unfold in the spaces where their eyes meet and their lips touch and that is definitely a first.

She burrows into the lonely corners of Carol's life, making her nest on the firm half of Carol's couch that has scarcely been sat on, in the time between rubbing sleep from her eyes and waiting for coffee to brew—a text message just to say good morning.

Jessica brings her daffodils, once a week.

"They look like little suns," she explains, adorably coy. "To help you remember the magic of flying."

Carol pushes her against the stacks and kisses her, always.

  
  


They take most of their dates to the coffee shop, during Jessica's lunch break; Steve watches the store for her and she returns the favor after midday rush so Steve can visit with Sam.

"It's not a thing," he tells Carol, when she teases him about it. "I'm old-fashioned. I don't kiss before the first date."

She laughs, says, "Shut up," and punches his arm. He beams at her.

It's Friday afternoon, eight weeks after their first kiss, when Carol walks into the coffee shop and finds Jessica curled up on one half of a loveseat reading the Mill book Carol sold to her.

Autumn is turning so Sam's making pumpkin spice lattes. He's stacking some ceramic mugs when Carol approaches the counter.

He salutes her, says, "Colonel," and she replies with, "How's it hangin', Snap?" because their newly formed friendship consists of teasing each other about the confidential bits and pieces they can pry out of Steve.

Sam produces a pair of small latte mugs—one creamed-colored, one with white and yellow stripes—from a cart of clean dishes and says, "Two pumpkin spice?"

"Please." Carol slides a twenty across the counter and turns to watch Jessica. The book is consuming her, Carol can tell—she's touching her lips with the pads of her fingers, carelessly smearing her lipstick. Jessica only does this when she's deep in thought and Carol _loves_ possessing that kind of knowledge; she loves learning about Jessica's little quirks and habits and figuring out what they mean and why they are.

"Your girl finally quit that job of hers?" Sam says, pouring the foam.

"Not to my knowledge." Carol wants to believe that if and when Jessica finally took that risk, Carol would be the first to know. "What makes you think so?"

"Been here two hours, maybe more. Bit excessive for a lunch break."

"What's she been doing?"

"Nose in that book the whole damn time."

Carol smiles without really meaning to; it's something she finds particularly charming, the way Jessica becomes so immersed in a book, curled up on Carol's couch or in some corner of the coffee shop, reading as though the words on each page make up her entire world. It's easy to imagine the threads of reality falling away inside her brain, and there have been instances of surprising frequency in which Carol left Jessica reading in the bookstore, only to return from the bank or the post office twenty minutes later and have Jessica blink up at her and say, "You were gone?"

It's kind of adorable.

But it hardly justifies a three hour lunch break.

Sam sets their drinks on the counter and starts to break the twenty Carol left for him.

"Keep the change," she says, smiling as she takes a mug in each hand.

"Hey, thanks." He tilts his head towards Jessica. "Keep me posted on the Jess situation." 

Carol gives a lofty chuckle. "I'm sure _Steve_ will beat me to it."

Sam rolls his eyes and Carol notes, with quiet delight, the way his complexion darkens just the slightest bit beneath his eyes at the mention of Steve.

Jessica finally looks up from her book as Carol approaches and offers a dazzling sort of smile that Carol _needs_ to press her mouth against. She sets their drinks on a low coffee table and does exactly that.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."

Jessica licks her lips, looking gratified, and Carol's eyes trace the movement of her tongue with interest.

"Peppermint," she declares.

"It's my chap stick."

"I like it," Jessica says, and steals another kiss. Carol's head starts to spin, the same way it did whenever she flew too high or ran out of oxygen and held her breath for too long. It's a much more pleasant feeling, with Jessica as the cause.

"I'll wear it more often," Carol says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. Jessica's laughter rises like bubbles, bright and euphoric; it makes Carol absurdly happy to hear.

They rearrange themselves so they can look at each other while they talk and Carol distributes the drinks.

"Looks like you're really digging that essay," Carol notes, indicating the book in Jessica's lap.

"Oh. The feminist one?" Jessica waves a negligent hand. "I read that weeks ago, don't be absurd. It was good, like you said, but nothing I didn't already believe to be true. I'm glad you pointed me in Mill's direction, though," Jessica's quick to amend before disappointment can wilt Carol's smile. "Because now I'm reading about his theory of utility and it's really reaching me."

"Yeah?"

"He basically says this preconceived notion of happiness that we all understand but can't quite define is completely false, that a life of happiness isn't some perfect ending like we've all been deluded into believing will just... just _happen_ , to each of us—like if we live long enough, we'll get there."

Carol hums, sipping her latte. She remembers, quite explicitly, reading that essay for the first time, after her demotion; the book came from a care package, and Sharon carried it around for weeks before deciding she hadn't the patience for philosophy and offering it to Carol on a whim one sleepless night outside their tents.

That particular book is one of the few Carol retained for her shelf at home. Its pages still smell of the desert.

"He says that happiness is actually composed of pleasures and pains existing within a mean, that pain is necessary to appreciate pleasure and a life of happiness would have as few pains as possible but you still need them in order to be happy. What matters is maximizing pleasure." Jessica takes a drink, foam cleaving to her lip.

Carol collects the foam on her thumb without really thinking about it. "Tipping the scale."

A flush climbs up Jessica's neck, her pupils dilating and her breath coming short. "Right," she says, strained, and coughs into her fist. Carol smirks. "Which is—that's why I took the rest of today off," she adds, when the moment passes.

Carol cocks her head, one eyebrow arching towards her hairline. She's glad for a solution to the mystery of Jessica's employment status but is still entirely confused.

Jessica looks at her bravely, then—a dare in her smile. "Come with me."

"If I want to live?"

Jessica rolls her eyes, but her smile slips into something softer, fonder. "A road trip, dork. Let's take the trolley, see where we end up." She puts her hand on Carol's knee and her smile grows goofy, lop-sided, tongue poking out between her teeth. "Tip the scale."

Oh, hell.

"When should we leave?"

  
  


She closes shop early and offers Steve the day off (what's left of it, anyway). He declines, twice, until Carol tells him about her encounter with Sam and the alleged blush and Steve becomes suddenly compliant. He disappears into the coffee shop with a mumbled _see you tomorrow_ and Carol laughs, deliriously happy, as Jessica threads their fingers together.

Carol's been living in San Francisco for all of six months so an indulgent trolley ride is actually quite exciting. She's ridden it before, but never took care to watch the brightly colored buildings rush by like some panoramic acid trip.

The city is so _bright_.

Jessica's pointing out various buildings—there's the flower shop where she buys daffodils, and that gallery over there sells hilarious paintings of personified green olives, and—oh, remember those stupid singing bass? That thrift store still sells them, real cheap.

Carol has no interest in purchasing ironic art or gag fish but she's content to watch the passing wind whip Jessica's hair around her face. She feels warm everywhere—the places touched by sunlight, the skin touched by Jessica; their hands are still linked, and every so often the trolley's precarious movement will knock their shoulders or their knees together, Jessica chattering all the while.

"I'm boring you, aren't I?" Jessica says when Carol hasn't spoken for nearly ten minutes.

Carol grins earnestly. "No," she says, and leans into Jessica, lips barely brushing the shell of her ear, whispers, "I love listening to you," and honestly means it.

The trolley gives a rickety jump at that moment, and Carol's mouth makes contact with Jessica's neck, just enough pressure to be mistaken for a kiss. Carol starts to play it off but then Jessica's palming the side of her face and kissing her, hard, on the mouth. Carol keens into Jessica's touch, letting her take what she wants, until the trolley jumps again and their foreheads thump together.

"Ow."

Carol laughs easily and sits back again, slipping her arm around Jessica's shoulders to pull her closer. Jessica leans her head against Carol's and the moment is perfect.

  
  


They have a late lunch at this sunny sidewalk café where a busker is playing old theme songs on a banjo. Everything is so bright, and Jessica is such a stark contrast with her black hair and black vest and black jeans. She giggles deliriously when she realizes the busker is playing the _Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors_ theme and Carol watches her, choking down a swell of emotion in her throat.

Jessica takes care of the bill even though today was Carol's turn to pay, arguing that Carol paid for their coffee earlier. They bicker about it playfully until Carol realizes they're actually flirting with each other, feet brushing beneath the table. She rolls her eyes and stands up, goes to tip the busker while Jessica takes stock of their current location, reading street signs and deciding where to go next.

"The beach is this way," Jessica says, grinning wildly. "Let's go."

They take off their heels and walk barefoot through the sand, talking sparsely. Carol likes that they can be quiet together. Jessica makes her feel totally at home.

"I haven't seen the ocean in... god, five years, maybe," Carol muses, calmed by the crisp, salty sea breeze. She's feeling oddly nostalgic, flooded with memories she hasn't considered in years.

Jessica looks over to her and smiles; says nothing.

"Steve had about seven months left on his tour when I left the Air Force. He and Bucky and Natasha all came home at the same time," Carol continues. "We went to Sanibel and we _trashed_ ourselves. I'm talking pizza for breakfast, cocktails for dinner. We rented this beachfront condo and Bucky was so wasted one night he actually managed to convince us all to go skinny-dipping in the ocean."

"Oh, god," Jessica says, already starting to giggle.

"I think I got stung by like, four jellyfish," Carol says, her own laughter spilling out. "Steve got sand crabs. Steve got sand crabs where you really don't want to have sand crabs."

Jessica's laughing louder now, dynamic and faintly musical. The hand not holding her shoes finds purchase on Carol's bicep. "That's terrible."

"I know." It's one of those experiences that only manages to be amusing in retrospection. She still remembers, quite vividly, waking up with those jellyfish burns and thusly beating the snot out of Bucky.

"Do you miss them?"

Carol steps on a sun-bleached seashell, feeling it crunch beneath her toes. "Bucky and Nat?"

 _And Sharon_ hangs unspoken in the space between them, but for now Jessica drags her hand down the length of Carol's arm to tangle their fingers. "Yes."

"All the time," Carol says honestly, lulled by the warmth of the moment, of Jessica's eyes and her touch and their laughter still clinging to the air in echoes like specks of dust. "We had a great thing. Steve was my straight man, I was Bucky's, he was Nat's, and she was Steve's. Never a dull moment between the four of us."

Carol doesn't know what it is about Jessica that makes talking about the war so easy. Whereas before she clung to the worst parts of her tour, with Jessica she is overflowing, filled to the brim with the best memories she has. 

"It'll be December before you know it," Jessica tells her.

"I should warn you," Carol says, swinging their hands between them, feeling playful for no reason. "Bucky and Natasha are crazy hot but they're also crazy in love with _each other_ , so if you were planning to leave me for either one of them... " Carol shrugs, tongue tucked in her cheek. "Tough luck."

Laughter bursts from Jessica's chest. "Don't be absurd," she giggles, careening into Carol's shoulder. "As if there could ever be anyone else."

And—yeah, that's an _I love you_ if Carol ever heard one.

  
  


Sunset is drawing near when Jessica turns to Carol and says, "I have a confession."

"You're married," Carol deadpans.

"What? No."

"Illegal immigrant."

"No."

"Wanted fugitive."

"Stop."

"A prostitute?"

"I'm going to slap you."

Carol tucks a smile into the corner of her mouth. "So tetchy."

The hand tucked in Carol's tugs her to a stop. They've walked quite a ways; Carol has no idea where, exactly, but the coast stretches infinitely in either direction so if they're lost, if that's Jessica's confession, at least it won't be difficult to make their way back.

Jessica looks at her, an anxious sort of honesty glossing her eyes, those made-for-kissing red lips curved downward, and there's a moment when everything stops and Carol knows, in her bones, that Jessica's confession isn't a lack of bearing.

"This road trip isn't quite as... spontaneous, as I've led you to believe."

Carol waits, a breath trapped in her throat.

"I'm taking you—Carol." Jessica touches her face and the moment shatters, her eyes slipping into a kinder emotion, something soft and faintly amused. "You're turning blue."

Carol exhales.

"I'm taking you somewhere," Jessica finishes, lips twisting into a wry smile and it's such a familiar relief. The tightness in Carol's chest unravels, oxygen flooding her face. "What, you thought I dragged you all the way out here just to break up with you?"

Carol's afraid to nod. Then, slowly, she does.

Jessica kisses her without hesitation, pressing into Carol's space—her mouth and her _breasts_ , fingers gripping the collar of Carol's jacket. It's a fearless sort of kiss reminiscent of their second, the one that nearly knocked Carol off balance; this time it does, and Carol is laughing even before they hit the sand.

"You were supposed to catch me," Jessica tells her, but she's laughing too, ripples of it vibrating through Carol's body. "Like that time—"

"I remember," Carol says, and seriously loves that they were thinking about the same kiss. She arches into another, basking in it, delighted and overwhelmed. Her feelings come in a flood, cascading from her lips and pooling warmly in her belly.

She's already forgotten about Jessica's confession when the woman pulls away and looks at Carol with a dopey smile, dazed and shamelessly sated. She tucks some hair behind Carol's ear, rubs a thumb across her bottom lip, smearing the lipstick Carol wasn't wearing. "I need you to wear a blindfold."

Carol's eyes go wide.

"Oh—" Jessica's laughing again. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? What I meant was, I need you to wear a blindfold, because the place I'm taking you to is a surprise."

  
  


Stumbling blindly through the sand is not fun, not by any stretch of the imagination, but Jessica squeezes her hand firmer than she needs to and chatters some more about Mill and the other essays she's been reading, and it keeps Carol sane. Jessica's a smart girl, with a knack for relating core disciplines of every philosopher she reads and Carol meant it when she said she loves listening to her.

"We're here," says Jessica at last, and Carol moves to lift the scarf from her eyes when Jessica quickly stops her. "Not yet. Give me a minute. Stay here and _don't_ peek."

Carol doesn't peek, but she does hear Jessica speaking quietly with someone nearby.

" _Damn_ , Jess—is that your girl?"

"Stuff it."

"You didn't tell me she was a bombshell, holy shit. Can we—"

"Not a _chance_ , asshole. Is it ready to go?"

"Of course it's ready. You're going to introduce us, right?"

"Not if I can help it."

"You're mean."

Carol's trying not to smile but their exchange reminds her so much of Steve that it's impossible not to. The voice is distinctly male, and Carol's wondering who he might be—a brother or maybe an ex-boyfriend—when Jessica grabs her hand.

"Follow me," she says, and leads Carol into some sort of enclosure. 

For several moments, nothing happens.

Then Carol's stomach drops.

"Jess—what the _hell_ —"

She removes the blindfold.

... And finds herself standing in the basket of a hot air balloon.

At first, she can't react. Every neuron in her brain is frozen with shock.

Then: "You—oh my god, this is your—you brought me all this way—you can't just _do_ that to a person, what the fuck, are you crazy—you're actually a crazy person, you know that? This is—this is crazy, that's what it is—"

Jessica laughs, boisterously loud; it's whipped into a frenzied sound by air thrashing around them.

"That's not helping disprove the _you're a crazy person_ theory, in case you were wondering."

Jessica's unaffected, though, too happy and damn pleased with herself for Carol's abuse. She winds her arms around Carol's neck and slots their mouths together, kissing her with the kind of heat that sweeps through Carol's body like the opposite of goose bumps, a feeling further enhanced by thrill of being airborne.

She hasn't felt this weightless in years.

"I want you to remember the magic of flying," Jessica says, whisper soft in the breath between their lips.

The emotion in her eyes is clear and full and Carol can't—she literally can't—it's too much, too perfect, _they are perfect_ and Carol doesn't understand how any of this happened; stories like this don't just unfold, not in her world. How can it be this easy? Nothing has _ever_ been this easy.

"Fuck," Carol gasps, when she realizes she's crying. "I might be falling in love with you."

"Glad we're on the same page," Jessica says, and kisses her again.

  
  


Carol meets Clint.

He's handsome, and cocky, and crude, and he asks Carol if she's still into men, smiling lewdly until Jessica punches his arm. The sound makes Carol wince.

"He's a good guy," Jessica tells her, when they've left the beach and are wandering sort of aimlessly along the sidewalk, searching for a familiar street. "He doesn't act like it, but I know him better than that."

Carol smiles, remembering their banter; they seem close, and she's happy to finally know someone important in Jessica's life. "You dated?"

"No, god no. We slept together. A lot. But I ended it, which is why he keeps asking for a threesome. I guess break-up etiquette doesn't apply to friends-with-benefits."

"Why?"

"Beats me. Men are so weird—"

"No," Carol laughs. "Why did you end it?"

"Oh." Jessica knocks their shoulders together, and when they look at each other her eyes are full of that same, clear affection that Carol will forever associate with _I want you to remember the magic of flying_. "Because I met you, stupid."

She really needs to stop saying things that make Carol want to kiss her senseless.

The sky opens without warning, then, and Carol is too happy to be anything but thrilled by it. Jessica squeals, flashing Carol a wild grin that feels like a dare, and just like that they're running hand-in-hand down the sidewalk in the pouring rain for reasons that pass understanding. They laugh and laugh and Carol is bursting at the seams; no story will ever be as good as this, as theirs. No book in her store has even come close.

Carol is soaked to the bone when they finally catch a trolley. The ride is spent wringing water from hair and clothing.

They can't stop _touching_ each other.

The trolley stops a block away from Carol's apartment cluster and when she stands up, Jessica follows—of course she does, the day is too perfect to end any other way. 

  
  


Carol says, "What do you need?"

Jessica is soft and pliant beneath her. She is wet with rain and want for Carol and she arches up, eyelashes fluttering.

"Can you—faster—"

Carol obeys, and the gasp that spills from Jessica's mouth is something she never wants to forget.

" _Carol_."

Jessica gropes at her skin, collapsing beneath and because of her touch. Carol watches release shudder through her, can't not watch, can't fucking breathe. The undulations ripple her throat, her breasts, her belly, and she is beautiful, beautiful, _beautiful_.

"Carol," Jessica gasps, trembling with the aftershocks. She reaches and Carol falls into her, buries her face in Jessica's warm neck. Her heart is too big for her chest. "Carol—"

"I have you," Carol whispers, right against Jessica's throbbing pulse. "I've got you."

"I _love_ you," Jessica says, and comes completely undone, shaking endlessly into the night.

No, there will never be a story as good as theirs.

  
  


Chewie is on her face.

"Fucking—GET OFF ME." Carol shoves her to the floor, kind of hopes she doesn't land on her feet, and blows a raspberry to get cat fur out of her mouth.

There's a giggle near her ear.

Carol turns her head and Jessica is there, sunlight in her eyes, her smile a soft echo of last night's emotion.

It gushes back: a flood of warmth rushing like blood from her cheeks to the tips of her toes; she smiles, feeling sated and giddy with the simplicity of it, of waking up next to someone she loves—really loves, in a way that overwhelms her.

"You planned this; I know you did," Carol croaks, twisting in sheets. "You and Chewie are in cohorts."

"I think she hates me, actually," Jessica deadpans, sitting up to stretch. Linens pool around her waist and Carol finds herself struck dumb as she watches the movement of Jessica's breasts. "We forgot to feed her last night."

"Shit," Carol hisses, and promptly clambers out of bed.

She pours a bowl of milk for Chewie as an apology, cooks an egg white and vegetable scramble to split with Jessica while she takes the first shower.

They've shared these moments before but this is entirely new; whereas before it was a phone call or a text message, now there's the tangible sound of Jessica preparing for her day just a few strides away, and it's completely thrilling.

Carol wants a lifetime of these mornings, cranky Chewie and all.

"You'll need to help me find some jeans," Jessica says when she enters the kitchen space. Carol slides a plate with what's left of the omelette and a half piece of toast across the breakfast bar, distracted as she scrolls through a local forecast on her cell phone. "Your closet's a fucking wreck."

"Before, or after you got to it?"

Jessica laughs. "Well it's not _my_ fault I have nothing to wear. If you hadn't ravaged me last night, I might've remembered to throw my clothes in the dryer."

Carol looks up to level her with a smirk but notices that Jessica's dressed in one of Carol's white button-up blouses and some of her skimpier underwear—and nothing else.

Her mouth falls open.

Jessica laughs again as she goes to pour coffee. "Shower first, hot pants."

In a decade's worth of employ with armed services, Carol has never been so incensed to shower _quickly_.

  
  


Predictably, it takes a bit longer than usual to leave the apartment. Steve looks after the store for her and Carol resolves to buy him dinner someplace fun tonight—maybe that divey bar where they got hit on by the same hairy dude in a red halter top.

She's telling Jessica about it when they enter the coffee shop, hands linked even as Carol steps ahead to hold the door open for Jess. They're smiling at each other when Sam starts bellowing:

"I knew it! Fuck yes, Carol, get your boy over here; he owes me twenty bucks."

Carol can't do anything but laugh.

  
  


"Since when are you a gambling man?" Carol says, handing Steve a take-away cup of cappuccino. "You owe Sam twenty dollars."

"Rats."

Carol twists her lips, one eyebrow arching.

" _Oh_ ," he says, after a beat. "Carol! That's—wow. That's good?"

"Very good," she assures him, pulling herself onto the checkout counter. "Extremely good. So much good. The epitome of good."

Steve laughs affectionately. "Look at you," he croons. "You're smitten."

"You know me, Steve. You know my rap sheet. But what Jess and I had last night... " She bites her lip, feeling her cheeks flush. "That was a first."

"She's it, then? For you?"

"I think so," Carol says, and it comes from her chest, fills her veins up like blood. She laughs at the absurdity of it all. "Jesus, Steve, how did I get so lucky?"

"That's not luck," he tells her, and for a moment she thinks he's going to remind her of the war and escaping captivity and _we make our own luck_ , but then his tongue pokes out between his teeth and: "That's ten months chasing skirts in Europe. Jessica Jones tells me you're a real freak between the sheets."

He's only teasing; she knows, because his ears flush red the way they always do when he tries to joke about sex, but that doesn't stop her from grabbing the nearest book and slapping his head with it.

"Shut the fuck up," she says, laughing. "Jessica Jones and I never slept together. Is she telling people that we slept together? That little shit—"

His own laughter is loud as he wrestles the book away from her. "Calm down, she wasn't bragging. Why—is there something _worth_ bragging about?"

She successfully pries the book from his hands and gives his skull one last thwack before tossing it into the sort box behind the counter. "You can ask Jessica _Drew_ tonight."

"Oh? How so?"

"I'm taking us to dinner," Carol tells him, sliding off the counter. She kneels by the sort box and starts to make piles. "Remember that bar where you and I got hit on by the same—"

"Yeah, I remember," Steve says, chuckling softly. "Sounds like fun." He watches Carol's method, sipping cappuccino thoughtfully. "I'd like to spend time with Jessica, especially if she's going to stick around."

"She is—she definitely is." Carol smiles, quietly pleased as her fingers curl around a weathered collection of Ovid poems, remembering Italy in July and crumbling architecture and gorgeous men who played mandolins, charming women who painted. For a moment she indulges a fantasy of taking Jessica there—an anniversary or even a honeymoon, and it feels _amazing_ , simply having someone to daydream about. "You should invite Sam."

"No way, I am not bringing Sam to that bar. I want him to think well of me, Carol."

"What's more flattering than some burly dude in a halter top smelling your hair and asking what kind of shampoo you use?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

Carol laughs. "When did you talk to Jessica Jones, anyway?"

"Oh, couple months back." He reaches for one of the piles and shuffles through the books. "She was, uh—well, she was telling me how difficult it's been for her and Luke to find someone to share their bed. Things between them have been pretty dry since Dani was born so they're trying to spice up their sex life. I told her they'd never be able to agree because Luke won't have sex with a man and she won't have sex with a woman and she told me she'd have sex with you if we still lived there."

"She could only be so lucky," Carol deadpans. "God, I miss that munchkin, though. We need to get our butts back to Brooklyn."

"Tell me about it. You know it's been five years since we last saw Sharon?"

"Five years? Fuck."

"I know."

"Let's put it off another year. I'd like to bring Jess," Carol says, standing now that the sort box is empty. She grabs a pile and disappears into the stacks, feeling light in her chest—an inclination to hum. "So, tonight? You, me, Jess, Sam? Beer, burgers, genderqueers?"

Steve laughs from a distance and it sounds like defeat. "I'll think about it."

  
  


He shows up in a bowtie.

In a bar.

In downtown San Francisco.

In a _bowtie_.

Sam is already there and Jessica came with Carol. The three of them take one look at their misplaced friend with his white slacks and dress shirt and fucking _bowtie_ , and thusly burst out laughing.

Clueless, Steve glances around as if to locate the source of their amusement.

"No," Carol shouts, breathless, " _you're_ the one we're laughing at."

Steve promptly turns pink, eyes darting in a self-conscious frenzy from his feet to Sam and back again as he makes his way towards their booth.

"I didn't realize there was a dress code," he mumbles sourly, sliding in next to Sam. This, of course, incites more laughter, and Sam smiles adoringly before pressing a brave kiss to Steve's cheek.

"You look very handsome," he relents, reaching for his beer. "Queer as fuck, but handsome." He takes a pull from the bottle and Carol watches Steve go practically red in the face, his eyes tracing the movement of Sam's throat as he swallows.

"So, we just finished catching Sam up on yesterday's events," Jessica tells Steve. "In case you two have any more bets to settle."

Steve looks shamefaced, then, and Carol throws a bottle cap at him, laughing loudly. "Seriously, Steve? Bets as in plural?"

"Just one more," Sam admits. "And don't act so scandalized, like you and Jess don't have bets going on about us."

Carol and Jessica grin at each other, because, yeah—guilty as charged.

"What's your last bet?" Jessica asks.

"Who said I love you first."

"Oh my god," Carol groans. "You guys are such _losers_."

"I love you as in those actual words," Jessica says, "or just a confession of love? Such as: I might be falling in love with you."

Carol visibly bites back a smile, hopelessly charmed that Jessica has these moments committed to such immediate memory.

Steve says, "The former."

Carol aims her thumb at Jessica.

"Damn it, Carol!" Steve yells, thusly fishing a bill from his wallet and surrendering it to Sam.

Carol can only laugh as Sam and Jessica high five each other across the table.

"Don't take it to heart," Sam tells Steve, clapping his shoulder companionably. "I might've hustled you. Jessica's been coming to my shop for over a year now; I know how ballsy she can be." Steve glares at him. "Yeah yeah, save it for someone who's not paying for the first round."

"Technically I'm paying."

"We'll call it a team effort," Sam says, and motions for Steve to slide out. Sam disappears into the small crowd surrounding the bar and Steve scoots up to Carol's side.

"Thanks for betting on me," she tells him, kissing his cheek. Any sour feelings instantly vanish—that warm, brotherly smile she knows so well consuming his face.

"Won't be making that mistake again," he teases. She knocks into his shoulder, Jessica laughing on her other side. "Are you betting on me?"

"Of course I am."

"Well then," he says, eyes trained on Sam as he returns with their tequila. "I better not disappoint you."

Carol blinks and Steve is on his feet, intercepting Sam's movements and kissing him hard, harder. Sam is balancing a tray with one hand, the other winding around Steve's waist, and when shot glasses begin to rumble Steve steadies the tray with reflexes bred inside a training camp—chiseled bicep flexing against the fabric of his shirt. The hand not precluding a very expensive bar tab is cupping Sam's jaw and it's a perfect kiss, truly, if the catcalls and rowdy endorsement of their patrons is any indication.

Jessica takes a ten from her purse and wordlessly hands it to Carol.

  
  


This time it's Jessica, asking what she needs.

"I want you everywhere," Carol says, which isn't helpful, but Jessica laughs anyway, mouth tucked into the curve where Carol's shoulders meet her neck.

"I'll see what I can do."

Carol surges up into a kiss that bursts behind her eyes like a fucking firecracker, and Carol doesn't know if it's the alcohol or the way Jessica touches her like they've known each other longer than they actually have, but she feels red all over—stripped to the bone so all the soft stuff underneath is exposed and for the first time in her life: it's not terrifying.

Jessica rocks against her, slowly but surely, hips loose and curious, fingers ghosting over Carol's ribs. "I want to try—" Her words stutter into kisses, warm on Carol's chest. "I've never done this before."

Carol arches, the crown of her head pressing deep into the mattress. She wants to keep Jessica here forever, build their world into the warm spaces they carve with their bodies and never wear clothes again.

"I need you to help me," Jessica says, hands fumbling at Carol's waist. "Tell me what's good—" Digits curl into the waistband of Carol's underwear: a touch both hot and cold on her skin, lighting a fire in her chest. "—Or when you need something... different."

Carol's mind races, synapses shooting off sparks of electricity that rush fast and wild down her spine, branching out to every nerve and she feels boundless, in that moment. Unlimited. "I will," she says. "Just _touch_ me."

Their eyes meet across the trembling stretch of undress between them and Jessica smiles—a quiet smile, all soft curves and open affection—and Carol has never felt so safe.

She opens for Jessica in more ways than one, heart pumping blood faster than it ever has—ever could.

Jessica embraces Carol with her mouth and Carol is reminded, with perfect clarity, what it felt like to fly for the very first time.

  
  


Later that night, when everything is still: hips and heartbeats, even the city sounds beyond Carol's window, Jessica rolls onto her side and slides a warm hand over Carol's ribs.

"You never told me how flying lost its magic."

In the afterglow, Carol is numb. A request like this should terrify her but Carol has already laid herself bare—let Jessica strip away all the protective layers and touch her in places no one's ever been able to reach.

There's no fear. No dread in her bones. With Jessica, she is safe.

She fills her lungs.

"I'd been having migraines," Carol begins, eyes level with the ceiling. "I didn't think much of it. Pilots get them all the time, with the altitudes we fly in. I figured it was exhaustion, and all the sleep I wasn't getting." She lifts her arm so Jessica can curl against her more closely, head settling into the curve where Carol's neck and shoulder arch together. "They sent me in to get some guys. Help them out of a jam."

The memory replays and it's still so vivid, so palpable—what she saw and how she felt; it all flashes behind the whites of her eyes like several blows to her skull and she feels her chest tremble with a stutter of emotion.

Jessica strokes the plane of her abdomen, quiet and patient beside her.

"There were civilians. I only meant to lay some cover fire, give the guys a chance to make it to the plane. My head was spinning but I thought it was just... just the adrenaline, I don't know—I should've known better but I didn't think—I didn't _mean_ to, I just—"

She's losing her cool; her eyes are wet, and Jessica senses it instantly.

"It's okay," she murmurs, kissing Carol's skin.

It gives her the courage she needs right now.

"I started seeing double," Carol says. "And when it subsided, I realized I'd misfired, and—" She covers Jessica's hand with her own, feeling her eyes burn. "The civilians were dead. I _killed_ them, Jess."

"Carol—" comes Jessica's soft, gasping breath, but it's only a reflex and she falls silent soon after.

Carol expects nothing. Needs nothing. She made peace with this years ago, learned to swallow regret with her coffee each morning and put the ghosts to bed each night—learned to embrace the guilt as something that makes her wiser, not wicked. It's just one more layer for Jessica to peel, one more scar she can press her mouth against.

"Doctors found a lesion," Carol continues, because the story isn't finished. "Said I couldn't fly until they figured it out. My demotion was a joke; they cited skill level, like the lesion was the only thing that mattered." There's a wry twist on her tongue; she remembers the hearing, still—remembers hating the reason they chose, remembers hating how the whole thing felt too little like punishment. "They told me I could appeal when the lesion was fixed, and put me on a ground unit; you know what happens after that."

After that, she met the people who would carry her through the next two years of her life. She met Steve, _her_ Steve, and Sharon, who gave her more than she can ever repay. She met Bucky and Natasha, who'd been just as lost as her, who'd done things they could never absolve. Knowing them, somehow, became a reprieve—knowing they could all come from the places they'd been and still have the chance to do something good in that war.

"My superiors didn't care that I'd killed innocent people. _These things happen in war_ , they said. _Be glad they weren't American soldiers_." She strokes the back of Jessica's hand, smoothing a soft touch up her wrist, down the grooves of her knuckles. "I couldn't serve that kind of moral code," Carol tells her. "I needed to believe that I could be better."

She remembers searching her soul in Europe, questioning everything and testing the boundaries of her faith. She remembers reading every book in sight, taking solace from their pages, seeking something— _anything_ to prove that her experiences made her more than how she felt, that she could atone, mend, ripen, become happier, become worthy of good things.

Jessica kisses the underside of her jaw, a promise seeping from her lips: _you are_.

"They fixed the lesion," Carol continues, "and restored my rank, but when I finally got back in the air... the magic was gone. Flying wasn't special anymore."

"But that's different now," Jessica says, pulling herself on top of Carol, and for the first time since Carol's story began their eyes meet—Jessica's full of that cherished, clear affection Carol knows in nine words. "Now it's special again, right?"

"Yes," Carol says, a thousand times yes. "You brought the magic back."

And when they kiss she's reminded exactly how Jessica did that.

  
  


Steve, ever the early riser, always opens shop for Carol; no one wants to buy a book at nine o'clock in the morning any day of the week, even less so on a Sunday, but Carol appreciates the effort because it means she can take her time with Jessica, can fool around in the shower and the kitchen and start things that end right back in the bedroom.

Today, not only is Steve later than his definition of punctual—he's later than Carol's definition of late, and when Jessica returns from getting their coffee she says that Sam's missing as well, that one of his employees had to open this morning.

It doesn't take a genius to figure this one out.

In what might be Carol's favorite bit ever, she has Jessica run out for latex balloons and they write _congrats on the sex!_ all over each one, complete with anatomically relevant doodles for the sole purpose of being antagonistic little shits.

They put half in the coffee shop, with the permission of Sam's snickering staff, and the other half are presented to Steve when he walks in one hour later, looking freshly fucked and visibly cheerful.

Carol's on him in a second. "So what was that thing you said about kissing and first dates? Mr. I'm-Old-Fashioned."

He reddens a bit, but whatever sex he definitely had this morning was apparently so good, even Carol's teasing can't sour his mood. "What do you think last night was?"

"Dude," Carol says, "you _hijacked_ my group hang for your personal conquest of tail." She sniffles, wiping a mock tear from the corner of her eye. "I'm so proud."

Steve laughs at her, moving towards the checkout counter where Jessica's perched, legs dangling over the edge, so he can box with the balloons she's holding. "You're both ridiculous."

"And you're a stud," Jessica tells him. "It took me two months to get into Carol's pants. You take Sam on one double date, and _boom_."

"Excuse me?" says Carol. " _You_ got into _my_ pants?"

Jessica blows her a kiss.

Through the walls they hear Sam bellowing: "CAROL DANVERS. I WILL PUT A FLOCK OF PIDGEONS IN YOUR STORE IF YOU DON'T GET THESE BALLOONS OUT OF MINE."

And that pretty much sets up a dynamic Carol's sure will dictate their friendship for many years to come.

  
  


The bookstore is empty one mild day in November when Jessica appears, almost thirty minutes late for their daily coffee date. Steve is next door (surprise, surprise) and Carol's sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading from a donation box she has yet to sort.

"I took a risk," says Jessica, an explosion of energy that zaps the room, shocks it to life. She is bursting with color, wrapped up in a red pea coat and vibrant blue jeans, clutching a bundle of bright yellow daffodils that make Carol smile on sight.

"What do you mean?"

"Our first date," Jessica says, a little breathless, like she's been running—like she ran all the way here, too full of excitement to wait for a trolley. "You told me: sometimes you have to make your moment. You told me: there are times when you can only take a risk and hope it leads to something true. Do you remember that?"

Carol nods, climbing to her feet; of course she remembers. "You wanted to know if I was happy."

"Yeah, because I wasn't. Not really—not like I am now."

The urge to push forward and kiss her swells in Carol's muscles but she battles against it because Jessica is brimming with all the things she hasn't said, needs to say.

"And the only reason I am," Jessica continues, "is because you took a risk. When you kissed me that first time, right over there in front of the philosophy shelf you made your moment, and it led to us, and we're the best thing you've ever had. I know that now."

Carol smiles, a chorus of drums in her ribcage. "We are. You are."

Jessica brings their bodies together, stealing a slow kiss and Carol melts the way she always does: keening into the press of Jessica's breasts, the curve of her mouth. The light in her eyes sets Carol aflame.

"That's how I knew," Jessica says, and seems to remember the daffodils at that moment, pressing them into Carol's hands. "Because I was buying _these_. I knew it was my moment—the kind of risk I had to take. I knew because of you, Carol."

"Jess—" Carol laughs, a delirious sound that ripples her body; she's unable to do anything else. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I bought the flower shop."

Carol blinks.

"What."

"The shop where I buy these for you, every week?" She takes the daffodils over to the crystal vase Carol keeps next to the cash register for this very purpose, sliding them out of the paper and arranging them so all the little suns are shining back at Carol. "The old woman who owns it, Ms. Kripa, she knows me, knows about us. She's the sweetest lady, always asks me how you're doing—oh my god, you have to meet her before she leaves—"

"She's leaving?"

"Yes!" Jessica says, loudly—too loudly, her excitement mounting with every word. "She's moving back home, to be close to her sister in India, so she's selling the flower shop. I told her how sad it is, that the shop will become something else, something lifeless like a laundromat or a liquor store and she feels the same way. She started telling me about all her regulars—boyfriends and girlfriends and husbands and wives who buy flowers for their partners. She remembers them all. I told her—I said, _where will I buy daffodils for Carol?_ And she asked me if I still want to quit my job."

"You bought the flower shop," Carol deadpans.

"I bought the flower shop!" Jessica bursts forward, talking ninety miles an hour. "I'm applying for a business loan tomorrow, and she's letting me keep the current stock, free of charge, in exchange for some muscle, so clear your calendar two weeks from now; we're helping her move, Friday and Saturday. She wants me to start working with her next week so I can meet all the regulars, and then she'll introduce me to her vendors, make the sale official, cross the t's and dot the i's." She's grinning wider than Carol's ever seen. "Carol, I'm going to own a business. I'm going to sell flowers!"

Carol can't process information fast enough. "And that's... This is what you want? This is the work that'll make you happy?"

Jessica smiles, a modest curve reminiscent of all those moments before Jessica sinks between her legs—filling her up, taking her home. It puts Carol at ease.

"You know my story before ours," she says. "Losing my parents, working for Ophelia—you know about the bad roads and the loneliness. For so long I was searching—half awake, just waiting for something to feel real." She takes Carol's hands, sliding their palms together. "You brought me to life, you—you gave me a taste of something I can never come back from, something that makes me feel complete. I want to give that back to the couples in this city, the people brave enough to live for more than they are. This can help me do that."

Carol thinks of the people they were when they met—Carol: stitched together by threads of sad experiences and waiting for the universe to give it all meaning, like she's been hurtling towards something this entire time, and Jessica: lost for years and wanting the same, wanting so desperately to believe in the kind of happiness you can end a story with.

She thinks of the people they are now: wiser, braver, so sure of where they're going. She barrels forward, swallowing Jessica in a fierce hug.

"I'm so proud of you."

Jessica squeezes Carol's waist, laughing breathlessly in her ear. "I'm proud of me, too."

She draws back and her green eyes are shining like sunlight filtering through tree tops. Carol's heart quickens where it's lodged in the hollow of her throat.

"Come on," she adds, taking Carol's hand and tugging. "Let's go tell Sam and Steve they're buying us dinner tonight."

Laughter fills Carol's body and she'll let Jessica take her anywhere, everywhere—stumble blindly through a thousand sandy beaches that never stop feeling any less like the desert if Jessica's hand is threaded through hers.

  
  


Christmas comes just as quickly as Jessica promised, hardly a blink before Steve's seasonably decorated loft is filled with friends, old and new.

Jessica's sitting on the breakfast bar, getting to know Natasha; Sam and Clint are meeting for the first time, shoveling chips into Bucky's six layer bean dip (beware), and Carol's talking to Clint's friend, Kate Bishop, who's brought her girlfriend: a sweet college sophomore named Cassie who's majoring in biology at the university where her father teaches.

Kate works with Clint, renting balloons during the summer. She's telling Carol about a particularly funny prank she played on him last year, threading one of the cables through a climbing hook on his belt. The balloon set off and took Clint with it, dragging him several yards before he finally managed to unbuckle his pants.

There's a picture on Kate's cell phone of Clint running down the beach in his underpants and Carol makes Kate text it to her so she can do terrible things with it later.

When Jessica finally joins them she is warm with drink and laughter. She loops her arm around Carol's waist and they lean into each other, listening as Bucky tells Kate and Cassie humiliating stories about growing up with Steve. Natasha's mixing drinks too potent for anyone not of Russian descent (namely: everyone) and Clint is balancing precariously on a metal stool, trying to tape mistletoe to the ceiling. He is most likely plotting to embarrass Kate and Jessica later, to which Carol thinks: _bring it_.

Dinner is a colorful mix of home-cooked catering, courtesy of Sam and Steve, with a smattering of dishes supplied by the rest of their company. Afterwards, Carol and Bucky help Steve pack away leftovers and rinse dishes for the washer while the others bundle up and convene outside where a block party rages, the entire stretch of street supplied to Steve's neighborhood filled with people wrapped in blinking Christmas lights and dogs in reindeer antlers, card tables topped with a potluck of treats: sugar cookies and peppermint bark and peanut butter brownies shaped like stars. There is music and laughter and squealing children, someone dressed as Santa Claus offering candy canes to toddlers and liquor lollipops to their parents.

Carol helps Steve deliver his contribution, two platters of almond bars, and joins up with Jessica where she's watching Natasha and Sam help some kids stack themselves into a human Christmas tree. Sam holds a giggling baby at the peak and all the parents snap pictures, Jessica quaking with laughter in Carol's arms.

Some teenagers are spinning a sprightly rendition of _Little Drummer Boy_ with an ensemble of trashcans and Bucky materializes out of nowhere, snatching Jessica from Carol's embrace and dragging her into a dance. Carol loves that Jessica doesn't hesitate for a second, throwing her body into the absurdity of it all—that impulsive quality Carol's grown so fond of. She thinks of all the moments it's given her: unbalancing kisses and hot air balloon rides, memories of flying.

She smiles and watches the woman she loves until Natasha grabs her hand, tugging Carol towards the madness the same way she used to tug Carol towards the shelter of an upturned car when gunfire felt like rain, when explosive noise and shrieking souls meant something entirely different.

They dance, and dance, and laugh until their cheeks hurt, until it's bedtime for the little ones and the chaos begins to settle.

Carol finds herself sitting with Cassie on the street curb, sometime later, watching Jessica, Kate, and Clint experiment with peppermint schnapps at the makeshift bar one of Steve's neighbors set up shortly after the children disbanded.

Natasha and Bucky are slow dancing to a medley of Jimi Hendrix Christmas covers someone has playing from a boom box, and Steve is wrapped around Sam, admiring the colorful spray of exultant lights that seem to stretch on for infinity in this city.

Carol's nose is red with winter, but she never wants this night to end.

"You and Kate—you make a good pair," Carol tells Cassie, the words loose on her tongue. "I was surprised; you're both so young but so ripe in your relationship. How long have you been together?"

"Two years," Cassie says, smiling over at Kate in a way that feels very familiar. "We were friends for longer, before, then one day we just sort of woke up and wondered why we weren't trying it this way; we both wanted it so much." Carol looks sideways and Cassie's smile is so infectious—bursting at the seams, overflowing with the kind of unadulterated affection Carol still feels whenever Jessica brings her flowers or kisses her suddenly—that Carol can't help echoing the sentiment. "How long have you and Jess—?"

"Much less," Carol admits. "Five months, give or take."

"But you know."

"What's that?"

"You know," Cassie repeats, something insightful in her eyes. "You know this is it. You and her. The same way Kate and I knew."

 _I knew the moment I saw her_ , Carol thinks, and remembers the way her heart stopped, in that first moment, like something it had waited for—waited Carol's whole life for, and when it resumed in that next moment it was different; it was new—could only beat for Jessica, ever again.

"Yeah," Carol says, turning her gaze to catch Jessica's across the street, smiling plainly until Jessica screws her face into something silly, just to make Carol laugh. "This is definitely it."

This is her one good story, the kind of story that outlives them both, the kind of meaning that makes Carol feel immortal, like she and Jessica have spent lifetimes finding their way back to each other.

And it's only just begun.

  
  
_epilogue_

Brooklyn smells the same.

The air is heady like wine, full of cynicism and harsh realities—too dense for Carol's San Francisco lungs, spoiled by two years of smiling souls and sweet, coastal oxygen. She'd forgotten how much strength it takes to keeping breathing here.

Jessica's hand in hers makes up for the deficit.

The wind is bitter cold and she expects no less on a day like today, savoring the way it bites her skin. Their boots crunch loudly on dead grass and wayward brown leaves; autumn's on its way out, leaving dead things in its wake.

Muscle memory carries four of them to the gravesite. Even after six years Carol doesn't miss a step; Sergeant Carter never tolerated anything less than perfection.

The stone looks different. Lighter, maybe. Weathered by time and climate. The six of them line up in a row and stare down at it.

Carol hears someone sniffle—whether from cold or otherwise, she can't be sure. Jessica is warm and solid against Carol's side, making her feel brave.

She kneels.

"Hey Sharon," she says, loud enough for the others to hear—unafraid in their company. "I'm sorry it's been so long." The gloves she's wearing are Natasha's, dark red and long enough to touch her elbow, tucked into the sleeves of her coat. She reaches for the letters of a name she owes her life to, a person she loves in ways she can never express to anyone who never knew her. "Steve and I are in California now. You were right about me; I'm not built for the cold. Bucky's the winter soldier—I need sunlight; goddamn it, I've been in Brooklyn for two days and I already want to kill myself." Steve chuckles quietly, a comforting presence behind her. "I don't know how someone so sunny and beautiful came out of a city like this. You and Steve and Bucky—" Someone's hand is on her shoulder; she doesn't care whose. "Anyway, I'm here—because of you; we all are—and I brought someone. Remember when you used to say—you used to tell me, you'd say that—" Her voice breaks, emotion swollen in her throat; the hand squeezes her softly, pulling her through, "—that I'd make it out of the desert, and I'd find someone who would help me remember what it felt like to fly for the very first time?"

Jessica kneels beside her without further prompting. Carol looks to her, looks for that strength, that shelter, and finds it in the form of wet cheeks and a smile that echoes all the sentiment too grand for words. She feels safe, warm where Jessica touches her—through clothing and skin, through bone and fear and scars that only Jessica has traced.

"I found her," Carol says, smiling back at her, happy. "I found her. She's here, she came with me. Her name is Jessica."

"Hi Sharon," whispers Jessica, reaching for the letters. "Technically, I found her first."

The water falls from Carol's eyes and she laughs, overwhelmingly in love.

"She took me flying," Carol tells the stone. "In a balloon. She surprised me with it—put me in a fucking blindfold. She said: _I want you to remember the magic of flying_. So you see, you were right. And you were right about Bucky and Natasha—god, I wish you could see those idiots now." Carol hears their laughter, imagines Natasha rolling her eyes while pressing deeper into Bucky's embrace. "And you were right about Steve." She casts a glance over her shoulder and Sam is right there, his touch the one that pulled her through, before. She smiles at him. "He found the perfect guy."

Steve kneels beside Carol, laying a modest bouquet of white orchids on the dirt before the stone. "We miss you, Sharon."

His shoulders sag and Sam wraps around him from behind, fitting together as beautifully as Bucky and Natasha do, or Carol and Jessica.

Sharon made this story possible—made _them_ possible, together and apart. Sharon made the bookstore possible, made Jessica's beautiful flower shop possible, gave Carol the philosophy that gave Jessica the courage to steal her heart, tip scales and take risks, to take Carol flying and revive all the heart she thought a foreign land swallowed up.

She made knowing Sam possible, and watching Steve fall in love, and remembering what it felt like to live for things greater than the simple sake of living.

She made that amazing Christmas possible, and all the ones still to come.

Jessica pulls Carol's head to her lips, kisses her cheek, her temple. Carol turns and catches Jessica's mouth with her own, chaste but with feeling.

She presses the next kiss to the tips of her fingers, and gives it to the letters, to Sharon.

"Thank you for everything."

**Author's Note:**

> [Bonus feels.](http://pummelwhack.tumblr.com/tagged/bookstore%20au)


End file.
